


you don't have to go home (but you can't stay here)

by kaydeefalls



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen, Growing Up Together, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, and a bit post-slash, but nothing explicit, schoolyard bullying, stuart and vince throughout the decades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 21:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: Five places Vince will never go back, and one he does.





	you don't have to go home (but you can't stay here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vamillepudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/gifts).



**1\. Football practice, East Manchester Academy (1983)**

Vince is in fourth form when he quits the football team at school for good.

Practice that day is shite. It's raining lightly the whole time, so the field is half mud, and George Temple seems to have made it his personal mission to make sure Vince goes sprawling whenever he manages to get within two meters of the ball. Not that their coach ever sees Temple kicking his legs out from under him, or checking him so hard he can't catch his breath, but he certainly sees every shot that Vince misses, and gives him hell for it. Then of course Vince doesn't dare go for a shower with the other boys afterwards, and does his best to strip out of his sodden, filthy uniform as quickly as possible while the rest are cleaning up.

He's not quick enough today. Because this is the sort of luck that Vince Tyler has.

It's really not that big a deal. Temple and his friends are no worse today than any other day. Vince knows they're mostly talk, that he'll get out with a few taunts and shoves and maybe, at worst, a split lip or a black eye. It's not fair, he hates it, but it's just...what it is. It's not like he's scared that they'll actually _hurt_ him.

So when the locker room door slams open and the new boy at school saunters in, he's not really interrupting much. 

"Oh, sorry," the new boy says, his Irish accent curling around the words in a way that Vince intensely envies. "Didn't realize you were busy."

"What're you doing here, Jones?" Temple demands, caught off balance with a fistful of Vince's shirtfront. "You're not in football."

Jones shrugs, bracing himself casually against the doorframe, all lean, dark grace. "Been thinking of joining. All that sweat and mud and heavy breathing, plus it does wonders for the calves." He looks them up and down, taking his time lingering on Temple's legs.

Temple flushes beet red. "What are you looking at?"

"Good question," Jones drawls, taking in the three lads surrounding Vince, who's still only half dressed. The clenched fists, the mud in Vince's hair, the bruise starting to form on his jaw. "Shall I tell you what it looks like? Better yet, I could call your coach in to have a look for himself. What do you think _he'll_ see?"

After a moment's hesitation, Temple shoves Vince away. "Fucking poofter," he spits. "The pair of you. You can have him. Come on," he adds to his mates, and they scarper with a couple of dark looks, giving Jones a wide berth.

Bad enough if it were just them, but of course the whole team's standing around staring now. Not that they ever had a mind to interfere when it was just watching the resident fairy get his arse kicked. Vince quickly yanks on his trousers and straightens his rumpled shirt, then grabs his bag. But Jones is still blocking the doorway.

"Had him, by the way," Jones announces to the rest of the team. "Little Georgie Temple over there, that is. Last week after phys ed. Not worth the effort, mind, so if he asks any of you for a go, best give it a miss. He has no idea what to do with that pretty mouth of his. Such a waste."

Then he tosses a companionable arm around Vince's shoulder. "C'mon, Tyler," he says cheerfully, and all but drags him out.

"Oh, my god," Vince finally says, once they've left the school and are halfway down the road. "Oh my _god_. I'll never be able to show my face there again."

"Can't imagine why you'd want to," Jones remarks, still far too cheerful. "Football's rubbish. Only wankers play football."

Vince shakes off his arm, still sunk deep in his private horror show. "It'll be all round the school by first bell tomorrow--"

"They'll all be talking about George Temple, not you. No one'll even remember you were there."

"Ta very much for that," Vince says tartly, then frowns. "They'll remember _you_."

Jones grins fiercely. "They'd better."

"Why'd you jump in like that, anyway? You don't even know me."

"Know enough," Jones says with a shrug. "Know you're better than any of _that_ lot, anyway. Three on one, with fifteen others watching and not saying a damn thing? That's utter gobshite. Next time they try to start anything, we'll kick their heads in. I'm Stuart, by the way," he adds, offhand. "Stuart Jones."

"I know," Vince admits, mentally reeling from the compliment -- if that's what it was. "You're in maths with me, and English."

Jones grins. "You know, you're meant to introduce yourself next, it's only polite."

"You already know my name, seems like," Vince retorts, but he can feel his face heat up. Hard not to, with Stuart Jones looking at him like that. Like he's the center of Stuart's universe, if only for the next five minutes.

Like he actually _sees_ Vince.

"Vince Tyler," Vince tells him, and they shake on it, oddly formal, then both start giggling in unison. "Why _were_ you there, anyway?" he thinks to ask, once they've stopped. "You're not actually interested in footie."

"No, but I really did toss George off last week, and I thought I might as well give him another round, seeing as I'd nothing better to do." Stuart smiles, dark and mean. "Waste of my time, clearly."

It's far too early in their acquaintance for Vince to be able to tell when Stuart's lying, so he just scoffs and says, "You never."

Later, he'll learn that Stuart never lies about sex, because he doesn't have to. But that's neither here nor there.

"Think what you like," Stuart tells him, clearly unfazed. "I'm famished, want to get a pizza?"

Vince doesn't have two pennies to rub together at the moment, and he hasn't even glanced at his homework yet, but he finds himself agreeing all the same.

* * *

**2\. Hero's, Manchester (1985)**

They're sixteen years old -- well, Vince is, anyway, and Stuart's only a few weeks shy of it and likes to point out that he's actually several years ahead in terms of experience anyway, _what've you ever done is what I'd like to know_ \-- and here's the thing Vince hasn't quite figured out yet: it doesn't matter if Stuart's the one who gets them into trouble (even though he absolutely is, every single goddamn time). It doesn't matter, because somehow it's always Vince's _fault_.

"It's because you're a shite liar," Stuart complains, after they've been tossed out of Hero's on their ears. "You just have to look them in the eye, how bloody hard is that? Baby face like yours, they'd hardly be able to resist you."

Vince scowls at him. "I think it's the baby face that's the problem, actually."

"You're not meant to buy the drinks yourself anyway," Stuart goes on, kicking at the pavement with his scuffed trainers. "Christ, what a fucking amateur."

"You're the one told me to get us a round!"

"Yeah, because the ginger bloke with the muscles was trying to get a look in, Vinnie, Jesus. I never said you should ask the bartender for it! What were you gonna pay for it with, anyway? Chewing gum?"

"Thought I'd just bat my eyelashes at him like you'd've done, I s'pose," Vince shoots back, too annoyed to think it through. "And don't call me _Vinnie_ , what are you, my mum?"

Stuart's eyes narrow, ignoring that last. "You never. You've actually got cash on you? Where from? I thought you only had enough tonight for bus fare."

"Nicked a tenner out of Mum's purse," Vince admits. "Just in case of emergency, like, so don't go getting any ideas. I'll put it back before she notices."

"You never!" Stuart repeats, appreciatively this time, and Vince can feel his ears go hot. Good thing it's dark enough to hide it. "And buying us a drink counts, does it?"

It didn't, but the way that ginger bloke had been eying them up had. Stuart just saw the muscles, and fair dues, he was certainly fit enough. But something about him was just...off. Vince couldn't put a finger on it, and he knows Stuart would've just laughed it off, or had a go at him for being jealous.

And it's not that. He's used to men fancying Stuart. Older men, better looking men, men of all shapes and sizes. He's used to keeping his own wanting all bottled up and buried deep, to smiling easily when Stuart picks his prey for the night, to being an attentive and appreciative audience the next day. It's fine. Being Stuart's best friend is so much better than being one of his shags. Stuart never gives men a second look, once he's had them. But he'll always come back to Vince.

So it's not just that the ginger bloke was looking, and was probably twice their age at that. But there was something hard and glittering in his eyes when he looked at them, the way he studied Stuart when Stuart wasn't looking back. Something uncomfortable, and dangerous, not in a sexy way. But Vince knows that if he tried to warn Stuart off, it would only set Stuart on to the man all the more. Easier to just avoid mentioning it. Easier to get them tossed out for being underage, and hope the ginger bloke won't follow.

"Any road, at least it's not on Canal Street," Vince says. "Not like we come around here often. Let's try the Rembrandt, they've never looked twice at us before."

Stuart perks up at that, like Vince knew he would. There's a bartender at Rembrandt that Stuart's been eying sidelong for weeks now. He's sure to get in there sooner or later, for all that he's not yet sixteen. Stuart always gets his way in the end.

"Fine, but you're paying for the taxi," Stuart says loftily. He throws an arm across Vince's shoulders. "It's an emergency, after all."

* * *

**3\. The Backstreet, London (1993)**

"You could've warned me about the dress code," Vince hisses into Stuart's ear, feeling excruciatingly self-conscious.

"Lent you my leather trousers, didn't I?" Stuart retorts, unconcerned. "And you were wearing the jacket already."

"That's not the same as full-on rubber! I look a right twat in here."

Stuart leans back against a column, giving Vince a considering once-over. "Don't be ridiculous. You're a treat. All the wannabe daddies will be throwing themselves at your feet."

Vince rolls his eyes. "Stop taking the piss, I can barely breathe in these trousers."

"Your arse looks _fantastic_ in those trousers, I told you that before we left. I should just let you keep them."

"You may have to." Vince sighs mournfully. "I doubt if I'll be able to squeeze my way out of them again. I'm stuck for life."

Stuart lets out a short bark of laughter and shakes his head. "Too right you are. You look fine, Vince, stop whingeing and enjoy yourself for once."

Stuart has totally half-arsed the dress code himself, shirtless under his leather jacket with black trousers that only pass for leather under dim lighting. But he still looks amazing, of course. And in other news, the Earth is round and water is wet.

"Why did we have to come here, anyway?" Vince finally asks.

Stuart shrugs. "There's nothing new on Canal Street anymore. I'm _bored_."

"We're in _London_ ," Vince points out, because it's already a rare enough treat for him. He still doesn't know why Stuart picked this particular weekend for a London trip, but he had, and dragged Vince along with him. Something about broadening his horizons. Vince has already seen enough fetish nights at various Manchester clubs, though, so he's not sure why they had to haul all the way down to London just for a bit of leather harness. It's not even a particular kink of Stuart's, as far as he knows.

All right, a _lot_ of leather harness, and then some. Vince does his best not to gape like a chicken on his first night on the Street, but really, there's some places he just doesn't need rubber to go, condoms aside. "Christ, the chafing on that one," he mutters, mostly to himself, but Stuart catches it and grins darkly.

"See something you like?"

"God, no." Vince shakes his head. "Mind, some of this lot look like extras from the Pirate Planet -- did I ever show you that one? Fourth Doctor, script by Douglas Adams if you can believe it, lots of soldiers in black leather and studs. Classic Tom Baker." Before Stuart's eyes can fully glaze over, he switches gears, jumping to the first topic that comes to mind. "You know, I first met Patrick at leather night at Babylon. Wasn't anything like this."

Stuart rolls his eyes. "Patrick who? Anyway, I'm going to get us drinks, be right back."

Vince watches him go, still bemused. Was that it, then? Patrick had broken things off with Vince not two weeks ago, though they'd had a good run of it. Nearly four months, which was practically marriage as far as Vince's usual relationships went, but for all that, he wasn't particularly fussed. Mostly he just missed the sex life. Patrick was no champion shagger, but he was a bit of all right, and beggars could hardly be choosers. He'd been a bit of a bore out of bed, though, and he'd _hated_ Stuart. It was never going to last.

Still, maybe this was Stuart's way of trying to make it up to Vince, sort of. Throw all the leather daddies in London at him by way of apology. Stuart's version of a sympathy card.

Of course, that was the point at which some twat with more muscles than good sense decided to try his dungeon master routine on Vince, which would have made for an excellent pub tale later if he hadn't gotten a bit pushy and mean when Vince couldn't stop giggling about it. It's not like Vince was in any real danger -- the other bloke was just kind of an arsehole, and didn't know when to quit, they'd all had nights like this sometimes. But when Stuart got back with the drinks and sussed out the situation, instead of using one of his lethal put-downs on the dungeon master and sending him home crying to his mum, he tried to get all butch and bodily shove the guy away from Vince. Somehow that escalated into drinks being thrown in faces and something resembling a slap fight, and should've blown over except of course, of _course_ , Dungeon Master was some kind of VIP member and friends with the owner and all that rot, so it ended with Stuart (and, in solidarity, Vince) being escorted off the premises by security.

All told, Vince has had much worse nights. 

"Ten quid just to get through the door in the first place," Stuart grumbles, running a hand through his dark curls. "Fetish queens! Utter rubbish."

"And we didn't even get a drink out of it," Vince agrees with a laugh. "Can't say I'm sorry, though. Not really my scene, is it?"

Stuart eyes him sidelong, considering. "Wouldn't know, would I? Been ages since we've been out together. God only knows what you and that _boyfriend_ of yours were getting up to, you were too good for the rest of us."

"You're one to talk!" Vince scoffs, rolling his eyes. "And he's not my boyfriend anymore. You know that." He hesitates, then figures, may as well ask. "Why _did_ you pick the Backstreet, of all places?"

For a long moment, Stuart just looks at him, and Vince thinks he might even get an honest answer. But then Stuart shrugs it off, like he always does. "Just thought it'd be nice to try something different, that's all. Can't have you thinking I'm predictable."

Vince gives him a wry smile. "Worried that the thrill is gone?"

Stuart looks away, expression unreadable, and Vince suddenly realizes, _ten years_. It's been ten years, practically to the day, since Stuart broke up that fight in the locker room after football practice.

Ten years on, and he's not bored of Stuart yet. Not even close.

"Come on," Vince says, taking Stuart's arm. "It's still early, and seeing as I'm not getting out of these damn trousers anytime soon, we may as well give them a proper night out. Where to next?"

* * *

**4\. Harlo's Supermarket, Manchester (2000)**

It all comes to a head during the regional branch meeting, of all the idiotic things. Stuart's leaving, Hazel's sabotaged his promotion, and quite without thinking about it, Vince tells that smarmy bastard Graham to fuck off in front of the entire Harlo's hierarchy.

The thing is, it isn't really about Stuart. Stuart's just the conduit, the instigator. Stuart's the one who always stirs up the shit, directly or indirectly, and damn the consequences. But Vince is done cleaning up anyone else's messes.

As he stands there, listening to Graham's inane ranting, something just clicks in his brain. Something final, something permanent, something he can't ever back down from. Maybe it's time to make a mess of his own.

It sounds a lot like Stuart's voice, whispering _bang_.

"You know what?" Vince says. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. Graham turns off like a radio knob, switching channels. "He's right. Fuck off isn't enough. Marcie!"

It's like she's been waiting for his cue. Vince could kiss her, he honestly could. "Yes, sir?"

"The floor is yours, and the subject is Christmas '99."

Okay, so maybe it was sort of about Stuart to start out with, like so much of Vince's life, but in the end, this is something Vince is doing for himself, just himself, and sod everything else.

He has no idea what's going to happen next. It's fucking fantastic.

Vince runs.

* * *

**5\. Knoxville, Tennessee (2002)**

They get to downtown Knoxville at around ten on a Thursday night, and the place is dead. Utterly, embarrassingly dead. They circle the downtown area for a few minutes -- the main drag is actually called Gay Street, which is a hilarious misnomer -- but apart from some stragglers hanging out in front of a movie theater and one half-empty restaurant, there's no real sign of life.

"We could just push on through to Nashville," Vince suggests doubtfully. It's about three hours' drive away, though, and late enough for the prospect to be less than appealing.

"Fuck that, I'm sick of driving, I want to get drunk enough to forget we're in Tennessee," Stuart retorts impatiently. "This city's big enough to have _some_ kind of nightlife. Must just be in the wrong part of town."

He veers them down to the next avenue over, which is even less appealing.

"There's a YMCA," Vince says, pointing. "Like Village People. That has promise."

"I don't think -- oh, _yes_." Stuart's eyes light up. "Finally! Our kind of people."

A drag queen in six-inch platforms and a terrible platinum wig is lighting up a smoke just past the YMCA, her mini-skirt flashing with gold sequins in the streetlamp light. Stuart pulls up alongside her and rolls down his window, grinning.

"Sweetheart, you're a sight for sore eyes," Stuart drawls. "Any idea where my friend and I could get a nice, stiff drink?"

The drag queen looks them over assessingly, her fake eyelashes thick and dark against her heavily made up face. "That depends, sugar. What kind of night out are you looking for?"

Stuart gives her his best seductive smile. Vince rolls his eyes, but he can't help smiling himself. It's always a pleasure to watch Stuart work. "We're up for anything."

Later, Vince will remember that precise moment, and will be sure to remind Stuart that _this_ time, no question, it was definitely all his fault. That's after the drag queen -- who is not, as it turns out, a gay man in drag, but rather an honest-to-God heterosexual woman employed in the world's oldest profession -- leads them to the filthiest country dive in Tennessee, offers to suck Vince's cock for $50, and then abandons them at the bar surrounded by seven heavily-muscled, potbellied bikers in gear that would have put the Backstreet's leather daddies to shame.

And then Stuart challenges the bikers to a drinking contest.

The next morning, hungover, sore, and still stinking of Marlboros and terrible bourbon, they pull off of I-40 near Kingston so that Stuart can purchase a gun.

* * *

**+1. Manchester (2009)**

They finally return to Manchester for Vince's 40th birthday, because Hazel might honestly murder them otherwise. She actually tracked them down to their hotel in Rio and threatened to take up permanent residence if they didn't. Stuart told her she was welcome to it, and hired Hazel three strapping rentboys in retaliation. She might or might not have shagged at least one of them to prove a point, but that was the point at which Vince died of mortification and then resurrected himself to agree that yes, they'd come back to the UK for a visit at the end of the month, and _oh my god, Mum, aren't you a married woman now_ and _he was young enough to be your grandson!_

She just gave him the sort of smile that would likely keep him up nights and told him that he was going to have to pay for her flight home, too.

Stuart laughed until he nearly cried. "Hazel, you're a treasure, never change."

So that's how, after almost ten years playing at world travellers, with one part-time residence in San Francisco and another in Bangkok, they find themselves back in Vince's shabby old childhood home in Ardwick, with Hazel's husband awkwardly putting together tea with the lesbians, Alfie glued to the TV set, Alexander and Bernie on their way over from god knows where, and Hazel's even threatening to ring Janice to see if they can't roust Nathan from whoever's bed he's currently gracing.

Vince meets Stuart's eyes in mute horror, and Stuart casually extricates them to look for the Doctor Who novelization Vince left behind in his old bedroom ten years ago.

From identical looks Hazel and Romey give him, he's not fooling anyone, but Stuart's never known how to pull anything past a woman. In fairness, that still means he's a fifty percent more effective liar than Vince ever was.

They make good their escape, such as it is, and Vince yanks the door shut behind them.

"Blimey, she's still left this place untouched," he marvels, staring up at his ridiculous old posters. "I don't remember half this shite."

"I mostly just remember Barry Sheen in the _Radio Times_." Stuart gives Vince a sidelong glance. "Still got that lying around somewhere?"

Vince laughs. "Unfinished business, Stuart, really? I'd say we did finally get around to that wank. Long time ago now."

"Suppose so." But Stuart's still giving him that _look_ , and really, what's stopping them now? Certainly not Hazel in the kitchen downstairs.

Oh, what the hell, Vince thinks, tugging Stuart towards his childhood bed by his belt loops. And they say you can't go home again.


End file.
